


Immolate

by grayorca, YearwalktheWorld



Series: Triverse [16]
Category: Castle Rock (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayorca/pseuds/grayorca, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YearwalktheWorld/pseuds/YearwalktheWorld
Summary: AU/Crossover. An epilogue to the epilogue.





	Immolate

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Trifecta_.
> 
> 130,000+ words. We earned our Connor angst.
> 
> And we have more oneshots planned, bridging the gap between our two big stories. Expect more in this vein soon.

Androids didn’t normally have to be assigned bedtimes. But when it came to Hank Anderson’s sensibilities, the three strays he had taken in could only benefit from the imposition of them. Given what they had been through in a few short weeks, a few days of downtime from Markus and New Jericho could only do them good.

Especially Connor - nothing more tiring than to break that kid of his workaholic streak.

But at least the third time he almost overheated, beyond the point of combustion, it was without all the unnecessary hubbub.

——-

Hearing a very-familiar engine idling down the street, slowing as it turned into the driveway, Sumo leapt up from where he had sprawled beside the radiator.

_Woof!_

The one loud, bass sound hit Connor’s hypertuned audio processors like a virtual hammer. Seated at the desk, he winced against the toned-down glow of the computer screen, LED glaring yellow as if aggravated in its own right. “Sumo, please.”

Unpersuaded, the giant dog bounded over to the door, sniffing eagerly at the handle, scratching with one hefty paw. He had forgone lazing about in the garage in favor of keeping company with the one android still online. He was a well-behaved, albeit oafish canine when one got to know him.

And every time Anderson returned from Downtown said dog rushed to greet him with several deep barks and (on rare occasion) an almost-successful tackle to the floor.

Seeing the door open on his peripheral, Connor pressed the monitor’s power button. The screen went dark, effectively hiding the intel he had been pouring over.

His steaming processor gave a proverbial sigh as it was finally given a chance to slow down.

“Good eve- good morning, Lieutenant.”

Technically, at 1:09 AM, it was that.

“Hey. What are you still doin’ up? You're all supposed to be asleep at the same time.” Walking in the door, Hank managed to struggle his way half around Sumo, who proceeded to try and jump on him. “Down, you oaf. Time for bed, Connor.”

Of course he would defer to addressing that broken rule first.

For his part, Sumo tried to make a distraction of himself. Tag wagging, he sidled around, practically under his master’s feet, whining and nudging plaintively for attention. In all fairness, he hadn’t received more than a few ear-scratches since Dennis and Nick had retired for the night.

“I was - composing our depositions for the hearing on Monday,” Connor eventually managed to string together an intelligent-sounding sentence. “I didn’t intend for it to take so long. I must’ve… lost track of time.”

A surprisingly-vague admission for any machine to ever make.

But in this case, it was the (borderline painful) truth.

“You, losin’ track of time? Shit. That's when you know you've been awake way too long.” Bending down just a bit, Hank absentmindedly rubbed the side of Sumo's neck as he watched Connor. “Okay, obviously it's time for you to sleep. You goin’ up, or stayin’ down here tonight?”

Downstairs, on the couch, definitely seemed like the more appealing option. He wasn’t about to brave the fold-down ladder in the garage in this state. Not to mention the slightly-concerning fact that his time-up online reports had grown progressively shorter over the past few days.

Hank had been none the wiser. But tonight he might just realize the problem developing right under his nose.

Connor didn’t like feeling like he was a problem.

“The couch, if it’s not too much of an imposition, please.” Slowly, so as to not induce any dizzy spells, Connor got to his feet, mindful to slide the chair back under the desk.

Sumo gave another bass _woof_ at precisely the wrong moment.

“ _Hey._ What's goin’ on with you?” Gently pushing Sumo to the side, Hank strode a few steps closer, until he was about a foot away from Connor, arms crossed over his chest. “You're not lookin’ so hot. You sick, or somethin’?”

This again - the “androids don’t get sick” conundrum.

The man not even really need ask. He knew from experience what an overheat looked like, on the surface, and this one was a league apart from the last.

Gripping the backrest with one hand, steadying himself if not leaning on it, Connor tried to seem casual, despite the unquenchable trembling of his opposite hand. “Ergo… why I lost track of time, Lieutenant. My processing speeds have been lagging quite a bit today.”

“Aw, fuck, like last time? Why didn't you say anythin’?” Hurrying over to him, Hank stopped short of actually grabbing him, one hand just hovering by the android’s shoulder. “Okay, let's get you to the couch, then.”

Trying to dredge up something like patience, Connor closed his eyes. “Really, Lieutenant, don’t misunderstand. This isn’t anything you - have to worry about. See to your own needs first.”

By his clock, Anderson had punched an eighteen-hour shift, on a mere three hours sleep, following an already-overbooked work week. Saturday, as in today, was his next day off. He need not start it off fretting over a simple overheat Connor could wait out on its own time.

“Uh, the day I put my needs before my fuckin’ kids is the day I die.” Giving him a head shake, Hank finally grasped his shoulder, trying to get him more over to his side, presumably to guide him back to the couch. “Can't pull that shit with me, Con. You're sick, so I'm gonna take care of you - _now_ , let's get you to the couch.”

Seconding the notion, Sumo gave another whine. His nose was almost shockingly cold and wet, nudging against the hand it could still reach.

And while he may have been in a position to try refusing last time such a fuss was raised, Connor wasn’t about to push his luck. They only resided here at Lieutenant Anderson’s discretion. As yet, there was no reason to contradict any orders he may give.

Not unless they wanted to start recharging in a back alley somewhere, hoping they wouldn’t be clocked over the head and dismembered or set ablaze.

“As you wish.” Squinting against the haziness coiling at the edges of his vision, Connor let himself be pulled away from the desk. Mindful to not bump into the coffee table, he took a few careful steps of his own accord, reaching ahead of himself to find the cushion’s edge. “There’s not much to - take care of, is the only complication. The issue is - internal.”

Going into technical specifics would only further mystify the man, so best not.

“So, we just gotta wait it out, that's what you mean?” Even with Connor already on the couch, Hank's hand didn't leave his shoulder, only giving a worried squeeze as he peered down at him. “I can't get you anythin’ to help, not even an ice pack, that sort of thing? Or - I can go put Sumo in my room, if he's too much.”

Said dog hovered beside Hank’s leg, ears pricked up. His whining finally seemed to peter out, sensing the tension filling the air. Looking between them, he sat down on his haunches.

Connor forced himself to blink, temporarily clearing the fog of heat from his optics as a windshield wiper cast aside snow. “No, Sumo’s not a - bother. And an ice pack wouldn’t have the same affect on me as it would - a human. Androids don’t sweat, just as much as we don’t - emit heat through our panels. We have thermoregulators for that.”

“Okay, okay… so you mean, I can't do shit.” Hank summarised, brows furrowing as he took in Connor's overall appearance, seemingly trying to pinpoint every little sign of the overheating that he could. Giving a sigh, he sat down beside him after a moment. “Fine. I'll stick with you for now, though, lemme know what's goin’ on.”

All of it? Now?

Blinking again, restacking those nonsensical conversation prompts in something-like conducive order, Connor kept his eyes pointed straight ahead. The fewer movements, the fewer changes in orientation, the better he could maintain coherency.

Hank wouldn’t like hearing what the actual problem was. Not one bit.

“How… how was your day at the station?”

“...You tryin’ to distract me, or yourself?” Hank asked, before shrugging and giving a condensed version of his day. “It was fine, same old crap as always. Just wanted to get the hell home, soon as I could.”

Why clock all the time he had, then? What was the reason?

Ignoring yet another error window, Connor squinted. His once-elaborate thoughts were starting to unspool. Conversational grasp would only deteriorate from there.

“Nothing of note? Did any of you hear from New Jericho?”

“Nah, nothin’ interesting, didn't hear from Markus. Now, here's a question for you.” Raising an eyebrow at him, Hank raised his free hand, so it was about level with Connor's eyes. “If I place the back of my hand on your forehead, am I gonna get fuckin’ burned? How hot are you runnin’?”

_If I was that hot, my panels would be melting into my epidermis. Don’t be ridiculous._

Communicating as much with a baleful sideways glare, Connor opted for answering the latter question aloud: “101°. Exacerbated by too long an - up-time.”

Not to mention the shoddily-constructed frame that was collectively him. No, no need to say anything about that. Hank had enough worries.

“So you've got some type of android fever? Do you need sleep, right now?” When other times Hank might have glared back, or given Connor a verbal whipping for it, he seemed too concerned now to work up the energy to do so. He set his hand down. “And you're tellin’ me the whole truth, right? Not just pickin’ and choosing?”

“As true as it needs to be, Lieutenant. I’ll be fine. I appreciate your concern, but maybe not… as much as I currently think.”

Shit.

There it was - the first slipup that typically meant the slide down into near-delusions would soon set in. Keeping a host of different nonessential processes disabled this time, versus the last, meant he had a chance to keep hold of a handle. He wouldn’t wake from stasis in a gasping panic, feeling like his ventilation system had failed in the night -

“-nnor, hey, are you listenin’?” Hank snapped his fingers in front of him, seemingly trying to startle him back into reality. The sharp clicks felt unbearably loud, as if they were right beside his ear. “Fuck, you're goin’ downhill fast. Listen, tell me for real - do I need to wake them up?”

No. No need to make a scene. They didn’t need to bother.

Peering (trying to get) past the haze, Connor shook his head again. “No.”

At that, Hank turned slightly away from him, pointing up, in the direction that the garage was, clearly meaning the two other androids on the property. “They know way more than I do about this, and they're not gonna mind. Tell me, what do I need to do, kid?”

Don’t get worked up, for starters. He didn’t need to panic. Panic led to confusion. Confusion led to stress. Stress of thoughts pinging back and forth into a useless fuzz of noise and code, that only made him run hotter.

No stress, no heat, no need to get his partners (brothers) involved.

“Calm - calm down.” Detached as he sounded, Connor tried to reach up, watching as his hand shook, to tug at the collar of his sweatshirt. Even if the gesture made no sense, it was another touch of reality. He was here, sitting on the couch with Hank beside him.

No, that slope wasn’t there. No, he wasn’t about to trip and slip over it’s edge.

Gripping his collar, he turned to look at Anderson, convince him to see he was still lucid. “Stay calm, and I’ll be okay, Hank. Please. I just need you to stay - calm.”

Damn empathy. He didn’t need any more nervous energies to feed off of.

“Okay, okay. I'm stayin’ calm, don't worry.” Hank put his hands up, as if he were trying to placate him, while forcing himself to stay as calm as possible. “I'm right here, okay? I'm not goin’ anywhere, if we need to just wait this out, I'll be right here.”

Right there hovering, in other words.

Why? The sensation would fade on its own time. Anderson could still make more effective use out of the interim: get out of his work clothes, have a beer, dote on Sumo. He hadn’t even hung up his coat yet.

“I’m - sorry for the inconvenience, Lieutenant.”

“Shut up. It's not an inconvenience, nothin’ like this ever is. You can't help when it happens.” Leaning back a bit, Hank made sure to keep his gaze right on Connor, searching for anything that would physically show what was wrong. “Kids can't help when they get sick, all right? I'll be here, don't worry.”

Kids. Again with that familial comparison.

For Dennis and Nick, settling into that role probably felt far more natural. They hadn’t been made with the same rigid programming framework their considerably-newer counterpart had been. Reformatting deviants only for them to ultimately revert back to deviancy still felt like a lot of wasted effort on CyberLife’s part.

Those same wasted efforts could have been redirected at making him the same kind of resilient their bodies were. He would have taken that over being slapped together, an expendable prototype whose hypergrided consciousness was supposedly more valuable than the housing it was placed in.

How was that fair?

Connor blinked again, temporarily closing the door on that festering, semi-repressed outrage. He knew he was made to be used up, now. But that didn’t help him cope with the resentment that followed the idea like it’s own shadow.

He didn’t dwell on that, couldn’t dwell on that. He had to dwell on a solution, not the problem. Problems were never solved by worry and hate.

“Then… in that respect… you deserve to know this isn’t another random, isolated instance, Hank.”

“Okay - I know this has happened before, kid, but I don't know why. You gotta tell me why, so I can really help you.” Sitting back up, Hank scooted closer to him on the couch, until they were practically touching. “Why is this happenin’? I've already got the idea it's not just because you're overworkin’ yourself so much.”

No, if anything, it was the compulsive need _to_ work which was the problem. The strain it placed on him, repeatedly, was where the real harm was being done.

But, in layman’s terms, that was how he was wired.

Fingers still gripping his collar, Connor kneaded at the old shirt’s fabric once before letting go. “I’m not the same - makeup as an ITG. My system specs may have been based on them, but I wasn’t - made to last. Prototypes generally aren’t.”

“Fuckin’ - what do you mean?” Hank's hands gripped at the couch, letting out a sharp hiss of air. “You're not made to last, like you're _supposed_ to die? Goddammit, how do I help with that? What the fuck do I do?”

That was what he feared would happen: sending Anderson into hysterics. They had a tendency to jump to the worst possible explanation in seconds. And having his going offline likened to the phenomenon of death didn’t help the android’s already-piqued stress levels.

“Stay - calm - please,” Connor enunciated, hoping it covered the staticky interference cropping up in his voice. Now wasn’t the time to go into tears. He had an explanation to get through. “I’m saying I wasn’t intended for such a prolonged usage period. CyberLife androids are intended to function at least the span of the average human lifetime, if not longer. Being a prototype, longevity in my case was a… forgone consideration.”

Hank may not have fully appreciated that at the time. But by the aghast look on his face now, he was fast making up for missed understanding.

“I was made on the cheap. What else is there to say?”

“Okay. Listen, I'm stayin’ as calm as I can, but this shit isn't exactly settling well with me. So, can I - buy you better parts, some shit like that?” Looking around as if he would find an answer somewhere, Hank's voice was piqued with his own stress, and fear for Connor. “There's gotta be something, somewhere, that I can get for you. Fuck, I'll call up Kamski. He must know what to do.”

“That’s certainly an option,” Connor huffed, relishing in indulging a bit of sarcasm, a brief tendril-like lash of temper slipping free. The combination of languishing bitterness and painful truth was proving stronger than the warm fog he was encapsulated in. Even as he watched, the temperature reading on his HUD clicked up another degree: 102°. “ You believe he would help, out of the generosity of his own heart? Whatever route you take, Lieutenant, supplementing my biocomponents won’t be an easy, all-in-one fix. It would run into - astronomic figures.”

Somehow, that was easier than saying he was the most expensive pile of junk CyberLife had ever produced - especially when one counted the fifty expired test variants that preceded him.

“Sure, I can accept that it'll cost a fuckin’ pretty penny. Parents spend shitloads on their kids anyways, so it's not like it's unreasonable.” Hank justified, raising his arms before putting them back down. “Kids have - diseases, parents spend what it takes to get them better. There, now I'm sure I'll do it.”

_Just as he would for Cole._

Holding back any ill-timed urge to mention that, Connor feigned a sigh, trying to ignore the hot waft of air brushing by his knees. “I realize there’s no talking you out of it. But there’s nothing you - _we_ can do tonight. These hot spells are - unpleasant, but not unendurable.”

“I know that. Don't worry, kid, we're just gonna sit here then. You can sleep when you need to, tough it out as it comes… we'll work this out.”

Quiet up until that moment, evidently deciding he had had enough of being left on the sidelines, Sumo gave another high whine. He lifted one paw to scratch at Connor’s pant leg.

It had the desired effect, enough to prompt a small, halfhearted grin out of him. “It would seem Sumo agrees with you.”

“Yeah, ‘course he does. Can't get enough of you or your brothers, that's for damn sure.” Letting out a huff of laughter, Hank bent down and rubbed the top of Sumo's head, and around his ears, drawing his hand back when it got dangerously close to the dog's slobber-covered mouth. “Eugh… fuckin’ Saint Bernard's, slobberin’ everywhere. Not like I exactly chose to get a dog…”

 _Do I want to hear this?_ Grateful for any turn in conversation that effectively took the attention off of him and his maladies, Connor went for the bait. “I don’t believe any of us have asked. How did you find Sumo?”

Relishing in the attention, said canine leaned into the ear-scratching, shifting only enough to sit on his hip. His tail began thudding against the carpet once again.

“It was back before the… accident. Got a lot of fuckin’ cases comin’ in with the whole red ice business ramping up in Detroit, all these wannabe drug dealers trying to make their easy money, fast as they could. Dogs, they're part of the symbol, you know, big attack dogs that'll rip apart whoever they set them on.” Hank waved one hand vaguely, one hand going back to massaging Sumo's ears, and down to his neck.

“There was this one guy, took him out easy enough. Only problem, he had Saint Bernard _puppies_ just there, in his house, probably thought he had the time and fuckin’ patience to train them into attack dogs. So we think, we're gonna have to drop them off at the shelter, can’t keep them at the station, so we do. And then I get to thinking, like an idiot, ‘Every kid should have a dog. …Cole should have one. Easy enough, a puppy.’ He was only two, at the time. So, I - brought home one of the puppies, who is now this big goof. …Huh. I guess I did choose.” At that, Hank grinned down at Sumo, before looking back at Connor.

“I guess I've got some fuckin’ habit of taking stray puppies home. First Sumo, and now you three.” Raising an eyebrow at him, without as much warning, Hank reached over and grabbed Connor's arm, evidently ready to say something else.

If he spoke, Connor didn’t hear it.

_(No, no, I didn’t let them, they forced it on me, I don’t intend to fail, not again, I can’t, too much at stake, I only need time enough to-)_

It didn’t matter if the hand on his arm was human. It was still a hand, grabbing him in an eerily-similar hold. The once-receding temperature of his CPU spiked again, startled, grappling to sort all those fragments of memory, put them back where they belonged on such short notice.

Sumo, attuned to the new trouble faster than either of them, barked.

_Woof!_

Audio processors struck again by such a deep sound, so close up, Connor winced. The heat built, new pressure forming behind his eyes, from temple to temple. Very belatedly, he thought to yank his arm away, backpedaling across the couch cushions to press into the corner beside the arm rest. “Don’t t-touch me!”

Startling back as well, Hank's hands automatically went up to his side, leaving no possible way that he could accidentally touch Connor. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry - Connor? You - what's happenin’?”

_(Download, you didn’t tell him about the download, no, you shouldn’t tell him, too much to handle, too much to parse, just - just too much, all at once)_

Beyond the headrush of anxiety, swamping his senses in white noise and static, Connor forced himself to go still. He had to stop shaking, stop panting. Shaking was bad. Shaking was a tell. Shaking only showed how afraid he was.

He wasn’t supposed to show fear. There was no need to. He wasn’t afraid to die. He couldn’t die. He wasn’t (isn’t) alive.

“I… j-just another eh… episode, Hank,” the android managed to gasp between pants, pulling his arms and legs in. Making a smaller target of himself, yes, that was what he needed to do. It made as much sense as it didn’t. He mimed a swallow, clearing more static from his tone. His HUD read 104°, the better to match the blinking red LED. “Ah-another aspect. I-I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay… I'm here, kid, I'm here for you. Just gotta wait this shit out…” Hank mumbled, watching Connor from the other side of the couch, hands still up with some caution.

As if he expected to have to fend him off?

Blinking hard, covering another wince, Connor shoved that irrational thought aside. He wouldn’t hurt Hank. He had no reason to.

“That… th-that ice pack,” he gasped, trying to grapple in a useful distraction. “It - it might not be a bad idea after a-all, Lieutenant.”

Getting up as soon as he heard ice pack, Hank nodded at him, already wandering toward the kitchen. He didn't bother mentioning to call him Hank over Lieutenant, not at this point. “Okay, I'll get you one, just… stay there.”

That was rich. Where was he going to run to?

Quashing any urge to quip back, Connor only nodded, stiffly. There wasn’t any point denying it any more. He was running too hot to care. Even if ice didn’t have a substantial effect, holding it was preferable to suffering the sweltering prison of himself.

_Mmm._

Sidestepping out of Hank’s way, Sumo leaned against the couch, without crawling up onto it, nudging at the socked feet in his reach. His tail abruptly stopped wagging.

“So, you… you brought Sumo home. What, then?”

“Brought Sumo home, and Cole was the happiest kid I've ever seen,” Hank called from the kitchen, before trailing back in with said ice pack, wrapped in a cloth, handing it to Connor once he got close enough, which was accepted with trembling fingers. Instead of sitting back down again, he stood there, arms crossed as he watched.

“‘Course, then he had to go and get sick the next week, poor Sumo immediately banished from his room. You know… my brothers got sick a lot, when they were little, too. I dunno if it was fuckin’... weak immune systems, or bad luck, but I swear to God, every other week one of them was in bed with a fever, or flu, or whatever other bug they picked up. And not like anyone else was gonna do it, so it was up to me to sit there with them, makin’ sure they didn't puke on themselves. So - I've got experience, kid. You don't have to be shy about bein’ sick with me.”

Suddenly, the experience of watching the man eat a hamburger, outdoors, in the middle of winter made so much more logistical sense.

He half-listened to the next measure of the story. Pinpointing the best location to place the pack, Connor slipped his hand under his collar, holding the hard, frozen block against his torso. Those thirium lines were among the largest and closest to the undersides of the panels - an ideal conduction point.

Eyes down, he admitted, “I’m sorry, it’s just - given our history, I didn’t think - you would understand. I haven’t been the most - gracious of acquaintances.”

That was putting it mildly. But what was enduring ‘illness’ without taking the time to realize past mistakes and the regrets stemming from them, like noxious weeds?

“Listen, Connor, I get that you're probably feelin’ some sort of regrets over everything that’s happened, and I ain't sayin’ to just let them go, because that would make me the biggest hypocrite in the fuckin’ room.” Giving a sigh, Hank sat down beside him again. “But you should at least know that I'm not - holdin’ any of it against you. No one is. You remind me a lot of myself, really, growin’ up. I just want you to make better choices than I did.”

What better time would there be to clear the air than now?

“We’re… too alike, is what you’re saying?” Normally he wouldn’t bother with such an inquiry. But right now Hank’s brain was probably better for doing the thinking with. “You would’ve… shot you, if you could come back for a do-over?”

“Uh… I guess, yeah. If I could go back and stop myself from bein’ the way I was with my brothers when I was younger, I would.” Hank looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before turning back to him with a shrug. “I'm not proud of how I acted. We're a lot alike, Connor, and I'm not sayin’ I completely understand, but I'm closer than most, with that. Huh… with all this goin’ on, you still not afraid to die? Remember, back at Stratford?”

No, he hadn’t deleted that one from his memory. And the subsequent transfer to this last, prone-to-fail frame only made it sting all the more.

Last time Hank had cause to ask, Connor ducked the question. He thought it was only being said to provoke a response - real, fake or otherwise. But now, with certain inconvenient truths finally revealed, could he do the same thing again?

The man had already committed to the idea of helping him. Why admit to the eventual breakdown to happen if he wasn’t hoping to avoid it?

Anything that lived, died someday. There was a time it was a non-issue for an expendable, replaceable trial model. That time had since passed, making the decisions he did. If he hadn’t said anything, he was as good as dead either way.

Blinking away the new twinging of his tear ducts, Connor tried for a scoff, reluctantly meeting his hard-won friend’s eyes. “Pft. I may have said that once. But now… I can’t say the same, any longer.”

Because a firm _yes_ was too much to commit to.

“Huh. Well, can't say I blame you, with all this.” Hank gestured up and down to him, still looking as worried as before, if not more so. “How are you doin’ right now? What's going on?”

Remaining curled up in a ball didn’t signify anything encouraging. But the cold emitted by the pack would circulate faster in keeping this posture. It felt good, secure, to stay closed up.

“I’m only - attempting to relax. Grabbing me, you… you startled me. That’s all.”

Nose still pressed into his toes, Sumo countered that with a low groan.

 _Liar,_ it seemed to say.

“That's it? I know I'm not a - psychologist, or anythin’, but I'm police, Connor, I've had my fair share of seein’ what panic attacks look like.”

Certainly. In others.

But what good would panicking do for him now? Only make his internals burn more, to the point circuits would break, lines would rupture. His ill-fitted thermoregulator would require replacing in hours, not weeks.

The very thought made him swallow anxiously, eyes darting one way, then the other. The twinging sensation grew. “Yes, I’m a little - bothered, by all of this. But it’s nothing I can’t - can’t handle.”

_(All I need is time)_

“Little bothered.” Hank repeated, one eyebrow raised, but didn't push any further on that than he probably wanted to. “Okay… so. Tell me, what's the next step, after this? We get you new parts, that sort of thing?”

“We’ll have to - source them, come up with a - comparable supplement plan.” Connor closed his eyes. The dizziness was back, the edges of his vision going blurry. “I can discuss it with Markus. He’ll - help us.”

“Soon as it's morning, I'll give him a call then, see if I can't get ahold of him.” Hank shifted beside him, but didn't seem to get any closer, instead giving him his space. “Guess that's all we can wait for now.”

Tentatively, Connor reopened his eyes. Keeping Anderson’s generosity on tenterhooks didn’t feel any more pleasant than the fever baking him from the inside out. Yet it still wasn’t hot enough to dry the tears gathering along his eyelashes.

But it was preferable to bringing up how stingey CyberLife had rapidly become in its dispension of blue blood and biocomponents. Hank had to know. He watched the news. And still he offered his home to them. He wasn’t afraid of what that would mean. He was human, and made of tougher materials than Connor was, ultimately.

_(Don’t talk to me about loss… you couldn’t begin to tell me what it feels like)_

Not at the time, no.

But this was a start.

“I… I’m scared, Hank. I’m scared - of having to wait.”

That much, he hadn’t been faking.

“Ah, shit - I know, I know you are. It's okay to be scared, kid.” Hank scooted closer, arms opening tentatively, as if he was waiting for Connor to say if it was all right or not. “I can't - it's fuckin’ cruel, to promise anythin’, but we'll try our hardest to get this sorted out, as soon as we can, okay?”

At a glance, it looked and sounded like something more applicable to Nick than himself. With that comparison came another burning rush of shame at his past actions. Every time he had shouted at or was disingenuous with their third, this was what he had felt: awful, and there was no hope of getting better.

Wasn’t Connor one to talk?

All along, the root cause of his anger had been fear. A hug from Hank now wouldn’t make that frightening thing disappear, but it could serve as a buffer for it. Just for a few moments.

Weakly, he tried for a joke, to offset any awkwardness. “I thought… Dennis said we had to earn our hugs, after the last one.”

“Group hugs. You three gotta earn your group hugs, as often as it seems you want them…” Hank trailed off, rolling his eyes at the idea, before leaning over and wrapping one arm over Connor's shoulders. “C'mere, son, I ain't gettin’ any younger.”

One hand still curled under his shirt, keeping the half-thawed pack pressed in place, Connor couldn’t fend off the embrace any more than he could return it. Nor could he wipe away the tears leeching free, half-wrung out of him by the new pressure around his head.

He couldn’t do that any more than deny how comforting it felt to be called a son. It was validating. It still meant he was something. He wasn’t a failure, something to be thrown away. He wasn’t nothing, irreconcilable and done for.

And he could live with that.

“No, Hank, it’s - n-not possible to get younger,” Connor stammered, face half-pressed against the coat-covered shoulder. He hoped it would be one layer enough to soak up the tears, choked-up as he suddenly sounded.

His free arm, he lifted to wrap around his friend’s side, digging his fingers into the aged brown wool. The near-desperate grab for stability had to be noticeable. “Only - older.”

Hopefully wiser.

If he was lucky enough to see it.


End file.
